


I Go Off Like A Gun

by Blackrising



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, Dubious Morality, Dubiously Consensual Groping, F/F, Failed Dubcon, Femslash, Futanari, G!P, G!P Widowmaker, Girl Penis, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 15:35:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7939909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackrising/pseuds/Blackrising
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amélie had died so Widowmaker could kill and if she had to make Tracer hate her in order to uphold what Talon had helped her become, then so be it.</p><p>- OR -</p><p>Tracer is persistent and Widowmaker tries to drive her off. It fails spectacularly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Go Off Like A Gun

**Author's Note:**

> FInally got around to finishing another Patreon request! This time it was simply 'G!P Widowmaker' and who am I to refuse...anything with G!P, really.
> 
> Fair warning: Widowmaker's morals are crap.

The real problem, Widowmaker found, was that Tracer was _persistent_.

Like a fly buzzing around the room and causing everyone to swat uselessly at the air, she had no perception of when it was better to escape through the nearest open window before she got squashed.

And Widowmaker _wanted_ to squash her.

Aside from persistent, Tracer was a number of things – annoying, loud and frustratingly optimistic. Widowmaker could only guess that it was that optimism that caused her to seek her out in every battle and trust that she wouldn’t find herself with a bullet between her eyes.

At first, she had welcomed the almost friendly challenge. Tracer was one of the hardest targets to hit, one of the most capable enemies she’d ever had to face, and every attempt to catch her in an unaware moment was both frustrating and exhilarating. The thrill of the hunt fueled her and perhaps she’d been lax about aiming once or twice in order to save the kill for another day, perhaps she’d nudged the barrel of her rifle an inch to the side or decided on another target when it would have been more convenient to end her life right there, but ultimately, Widowmaker was content in the knowledge that one day, one of them would not leave the battlefield.

So when she had found herself at Tracer’s mercy in a dark corner of Dorado, her clip empty and her allies too far to provide assistance, she had awaited death.  
She’d waited for the bang of a gun and the pain of bullets ripping through her, for the darkness that would flood her vision and end her existence. A part of her had found relief in the thought.

What she got instead was a ‘Should have seen your face!’ accompanied by a laugh and an echo of blue as Tracer turned heel and left to rejoin her comrades.

Ever since then, Widowmaker had started seeing the signs. A grin thrown her way from across the field, a warm glint in her eyes when she spotted her, a friendly salute before Tracer went her way – gestures that proved beyond a doubt that Tracer held some sort of misguided affection for her. She might even think they were _friends_ , god forbid.

Widowmaker had tried to dispel the notion. No matter how many cutting insults she slung her way, how often she told her to get lost or how casually she lead her towards a poison trap, Tracer never lost the desire to seek her out.

She came back, time and time again, with the unflinching belief that Widowmaker was, deep down inside, a _good person_.

It was disgusting. Disgusting and concerning and Widowmaker _loathed_ her for it, for somehow managing to make her keep missing her target when, by all rights, Tracer should have been dead in the ground by now.

Allowing this…dalliance…to continue was not an option, not as long as Tracer’s grin caused a peculiar burn in the pit of Widowmaker’s stomach and her desire to end her life dwindled more and more as time went on.

Amélie had died so Widowmaker could kill and if she had to make Tracer hate her in order to uphold what Talon had helped her become, then _so be it_.

She took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders, peering through the scope of her gun for a second before determining that their mission was not in immediate danger. They would have to do without her, but she figured it was an adequate price if she kept Tracer off their tails.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re up to?” Reaper growled in her direction, his fingers tensed around the triggers of his shotguns as he scanned their surroundings.

“None of your business.”

“It is if you expect me to keep our enemies off you.”

She threw him a suspicious glance. His mask hid his intentions, as always, and while his stoicism would usually make her feel more at ease with him, she wasn’t sure just how much he knew.

“And why do you think would you need to do that?” she asked, her heels clicking against concrete as she turned to walk away.

“I don’t know what you’re up to and I don’t care.” His neck gave a sharp crack as he stretched. “Kill her or fuck her or both, whatever you need to, but I’d rather not drag your corpse back to Talon.”

She knew Reaper was watching her beneath his mask to gauge her reaction to his words. As if he’d be able to throw her.

“Just concentrate on getting that package,” she drawled and fired her grappling hook, smoothly scaling the nearest building without a glance back.

She’d scouted the place extensively and had already found the perfect place – a quiet corner hidden between high walls and rooftops, nearly invisible to anyone passing by. All she had to do was get Tracer’s attention and trust that she would come to her.

An insect crawling into the spider’s web with nary an idea of what awaited it.

On any other occasion, Widowmaker would merge with the shadows around her before attempting to fire a single shot, but now she purposely stood beneath the moonlight as she lined up her sights.

A brief flash of messy brown hair was all she needed before she breathed out, aimed, and fired.

The bullet punched into the concrete mere inches from Tracer’s foot, causing her to jump aside in shock and momentarily lower her pistols.

Their eyes met.

The smile that Tracer aimed her way was expected, far too familiar for Widowmaker’s tastes, and she inched back into the shadows. She’d seen her, and that would have to be enough.

Were she any other person, were she the person she’d been years ago - soft and weak and _good_ – the minute she spent waiting for Tracer to appear might have given her opportunity to doubt what she was about to do. It might have made her ponder the morality of her tactics, question whether there was not a less drastic way to ensure Tracer would never again feel the need to come near her.

As it was, she felt nothing.

Like she usually did, Tracer announced herself with a breeze blowing past Widowmaker’s nose. The girl liked to dash past her front once, just because she could, and Widowmaker turned on her heel to meet Tracer’s stare where she knew she’d end up – whipping excitedly on the balls of her feet just a few inches from her.

“You’re getting old, love,” Tracer said with a grin and twirled her pistols around her fingers. “Finding you was way too easy.”

Widowmaker wanted to grimace, but didn’t. Whatever banter they sometimes devolved into had no place her, not this time.

“You assume I wanted to remain hidden.”

Tracer frowned at her response, her easy movements momentarily faltering. “Don’t tell me you’re just giving up.”

There it was again – the twitch of her lips, the hesitation in the flick of her wrists that told of her doubt. If Widowmaker were to bow down and offer her throat in surrender, she had no doubt Tracer would simply walk away just as she had done once before.

Her belief was confirmed as she lowered her rifle and Tracer took an instinctual step backwards, angling the barrels of her pistols to the ground. As if she was afraid she might accidentally give off a shot and _hurt_ her.

Widowmaker sneered.

It was time to end this once and for all, to show this _fly_ that it had good reason to fear the spider. That Widowmaker wasn’t _good_.

“We have played this game long enough, don’t you think?” she drawled, carefully controlling her body language to convey what she wanted Tracer to see. Arrogance. Apathy. A total lack of conscience.

All the things she prided herself on and all the things Tracer did not want to acknowledge.

“Aw, and here I thought we were having fun.” Tracer was still grinning.

For now.

“Think again.”

Widowmaker smiled – cold and wide and humourless – and used the girl’s momentary confusion to close the distance between them in two long strides.

Tracer’s back hit the wall, pistols clattering to the ground, and Widowmaker knew they would not be seen here, not at this angle, even as their position gave Tracer more than enough escape routes. When she decided to run – and she would – Widowmaker’s ‘failure’ to catch her in time would not be questioned.

She ignored the girl’s wide eyes, the knitted brows and parted lips, as she forced her head back with a hand at her throat.

“You’re not exactly a prize,” Widowmaker snarled, dragging her gaze down Tracer’s form with a haughty raise of her eyebrow. “But I suppose you’ll do.”

“Do for _what?_ ” Tracer’s outburst almost caused Widowmaker to chuckle, if for no other reason than that it was pleasing to see her stumble.

The tips of her fingers traced the arch of Tracer’s throat and her eyes caught on the small cluster of freckles near her collar bone. They were distracting and she covered them with her palm.

“You’ll do for _this._ ”

Whatever useless question Tracer might have posed next was halted by the hand covering her mouth, eyes blinking owlishly and – was it panic shimmering in them? Fear?

Hate. Widowmaker needed _hate_.

And so she pressed close, using her weight to trap Tracer harshly between her and the brick wall at her back, and slid the fingers of her right hand underneath the fabric of the girl’s thick jacket.

She wasn’t kind and she wasn’t gentle.

The harsh scratch of nails over her belly elicited a surprised noise from Tracer, one Widowmaker found did not yet convey the disgust she was going for, and she jerked up her hand to brush against the underside of the other woman’s breast.

She wasn’t wearing a bra and Widowmaker supposed it made her job easier, made it easier to push her beyond her point of comfort, just far enough to make her run.

Tracer flinched at the contact.

It was a tight fit underneath the jacket, but Widowmaker didn’t bother making this more comfortable for either of them, forcing her palm upwards until it covered the soft flesh and digging in her nails until she was rewarded with a muffled hiss of pain.

“Feeling uncomfortable, _chérie_?” she asked, squeezing harder as Tracer’s wide-eyed gaze flicked down. “Isn’t this what you wanted? What you expected whenever you came after me?”

She sealed the girl’s lips tighter to stall her answer. Widowmaker couldn’t remember what it was like to feel remorse, what it was like to regret one’s actions, but a part of her recognized the bitter aftertaste of guilt on the tip of her tongue as Tracer’s expressive eyebrows drew together at her words.

It was muted, a mere shadow of what other people felt, but it made her hesitate – just for a second – as she contemplated her course of action.

Tracer was fidgeting, her frozen body beginning to thaw now that she had recognized Widowmaker’s intentions, and it shouldn’t be long now until she fought back. Until she left her behind once and for all and Widowmaker could rest easy knowing there would never again be doubt in the snap of her finger on the trigger.

All she needed was another push.

Tracer’s slight statue and lithe frame made it exceedingly easy to grab her by the shoulders and swivel her around, shoving her flat against the wall. A hefty ‘oomph’ left her now uncovered mouth as she crashed into the hard bricks.

Widowmaker made certain that both of her arms were free to aid in her imminent escape.

“Oi, that hurt!” Tracer groaned, words blurred from having one side of her face smashed flat.

Widowmaker smirked.

“And why would I care?” She gripped the girl’s hip casually, splaying her fingers out to hint at the threat of her fingers sliding further down, down to where the shiny material of her pants was molded tight to her ass. Tracer’s shoulders tensed.

It was, perhaps, her greatest asset, though Widowmaker suspected this was mostly due to not having to look at the incessant grin on her face.

Her eyes caught on the gentle curve of the girl’s buttocks and she allowed herself to stare for a moment, accepting the flicker of heat in her belly with gritted teeth. She didn’t like to think about how Tracer had the ability to affect her if she allowed it, or how she hadn’t felt that heady sensation of blood rushing to her groin in years.

She didn’t like to think about how Tracer, for all her annoying traits and disgusting optimism, didn’t even have to work to get her hard.

Widowmaker allowed herself an unseen grimace as Tracer huffed and shifted as if to make her position more comfortable, back arching and bringing her ass closer to Widowmaker’s hips.

The girl hissed as Widowmaker fisted her hand into her hair and pulled sharply.

“Now now,” she tutted. “Keep still and it will all be over soon.”

Ignoring how her own words made her want to scowl, Widowmaker gave another painful tug and canted her hips forward until they were pressed tightly into Tracer’s behind.

The surprised little noise from the woman beneath her told her that Tracer could feel it – the hardness digging into her, the slight twitch of her member that Widowmaker refused to acknowledge.

 _Run_ , Widowmaker willed silently. _Run, chérie._

Tracer didn’t.

As clear as the situation was, as much as Widowmaker had tried to instill the kind of fear in her that would make her flee without a glance back, Tracer was slow to react.

Another push. Perhaps that was all she needed.

“No protest?” Widowmaker asked stiffly, a note of frustration bleeding into her tone. “How pathetic. Perhaps if you had killed me when you had the chance, this would not be happening.”

Tracer’s body trembled as Widowmaker rocked against her with a carefully orchestrated grunt of pleasure – one that had been tickling at the back of her throat for longer than she would have liked.

_Hate me._

Widowmaker didn’t feel, but she couldn’t deny the short zing of relief that spiked through her when she found herself forcefully shoved away as Tracer suddenly pushed herself off the wall and whirled around with a mumbled curse.

“What in the bleedin’ hell are you doing?” she complained, rubbing her sore cheek. The freckles on her face glowed darker than usual above reddened skin and Widowmaker found herself focusing on them as she waited for her to spat an insult at her, to tell her that she’d been wrong, that she was a _horrible person_ , and to scamper off back to her friends.

So complete was her focus on the slight crinkling of the girl’s nose that she didn’t notice Tracer reaching for her, not until gloved hands held onto either side of her face and her head was tugged forward.

Tracer kissed her.

It wasn’t a careful kiss and it wasn’t as playful  as one might expect– she pressed against her lips desperately, slotting against her until Widowmaker opened her mouth in a startled gasp and Tracer could slide her tongue past her lips.

It flicked against the roof of her mouth before dragging along her own and heat spiked through her to settle in her groin.

Her hands twitched, a sudden desire to press closer, to bend Tracer’s head back and bite at her lips burning up her spine – eerily close to that one exhilarating moment just before a kill, when the world stood still and there was nothing between her and the ecstasy of a win.

Tracer’s slight frame molded against her own as she sought out her tongue, brushing and coaxing and showing the same kind of enthusiasm Widowmaker had wanted to break her for.

After long moments of heat, of blood rushing and making Widowmaker acutely aware of the hardness straining against her suit in a mockery of her usual control, Tracer’s kiss slowed.

And when their lips parted and Widowmaker had the sense to open her eyes – closed, unknowingly – she was greeted with the sight of a grin so large it threatened to take over the girl’s face entirely.

Tracer winked. “Could have just told me you were fancyin’ a shag.”

Bared teeth and angry golden eyes merely caused her to laugh as she went in for another kiss. So sure of herself. Too sure.

Before their lips could meet anew, before Widowmaker lost sight of what she came here to do, her fingers closed tightly around Tracer’s throat and all it took was a well-placed kick to the back of her knees to make her stumble and fall, bottom hitting concrete with an indignant squeak.

“I prefer you silent,” she spoke, voice cold and sharp as ice, and pushed the tip of her boot into Tracer’s chest until her upper back and head were forced against the wall behind her.

If it was pleasure the girl was after, the intimacy of human contact, warmth – she was a fool to believe Widowmaker was capable or willing to provide. And perhaps she would realize it soon enough.

_You can still run._

Tracer’s smile faltered as Widowmaker kept her head still with a fist in her hair and stepped between her legs, her eyes flicking down to the telltale outline of an erection denting Widowmaker’s suit.

Widowmaker played idly with her zipper as she curved her back, bringing herself in close proximity to the girl’s lips. The flush on Tracer’s face intensified, though whether it was shame or something else, Widowmaker couldn’t tell.

She drew down the zipper of her suit slowly, expectantly, until the attentive glint of Tracer’s gaze rested on the hard shaft brushing against her belly, the sight of her obviously not yet enough to deter the girl.

Widowmaker grasped it tightly. An unseen shiver prickled down her back to pool warmly in her lower stomach.

“Open up,” she purred and it was too soft, too mellow, and she pulled hard at Tracer’s head to make up for it.

Tracer didn’t react immediately. Harsh breathing brushed over Widowmaker’s skin – warm and bound to damn her – as the blush in the girl’s cheeks flared and she seemed to contemplate the appendage before her.

A trembling of lashes, a tongue dragging over already wet lips, then a smile. “Big. But I’m happy to try, love.”

The stab of lust that pulsed between her legs was unexpected, unwelcome, yet Widowmaker could only watch as Tracer’s eyes fluttered shut and her mouth opened wide.

Waiting.

Without conscious thought, Widowmaker followed the heat searing her belly and pushed closer, stopping just inches from the warm wetness of her goal.

This was not supposed to happen. She had wanted to scare her, terrify her, pretend to desire to take something from her she had no right to. She had wanted to be sure that should her death come on the battlefield, and it would, it _had_ to, that she would see nothing but grim satisfaction on Tracer’s face as darkness took her one last time.

Soft lips closed around her tip.

She hissed at the sudden touch of a tongue, too lost in thought to have realized that Tracer had moved to cover the remaining distance. Her hips twitched and drove her deeper, the back of Tracer’s head bumping gently against the wall at the unexpected intrusion.

The girl looked content. Relaxed and heedless of the problems she brought, what her mere presence did, and Widowmaker felt a sudden stab of anger – hotter than she had felt in years and cold enough to burn.

Tracer gave a strangled gasp as Widowmaker suddenly thrust into her mouth, driving forward and slipping into the wet, glove-like heat of her throat until lips pressed tight against her crotch.

The girl trembled around her, but her breathing was steady, and Widowmaker bit the inside of her lip until she tasted blood to stop the groan that wanted to bubble from her chest.

Tracer’s throat contracted around her. It was tighter than anything she had ever felt, steady waves of pleasure shivering through her at every twitch.

The blood in her veins boiled and she felt almost dizzy – somehow strange, certainly distracted – as she pulled back.

Her next thrust drew a softer noise from the woman beneath her and an answering throb in her groin.

She could have given Tracer time to adjust, could have been kind about it, but she was angry and punished her the only way she was left with.

Widowmaker held onto Tracer’s head with both hands, tensed the muscles in her legs, and began to fuck her throat in short, quick strokes.

If the girl was so intent on asking for everything Widowmaker could give, then she would have to suffer the consequences.

Tears began to leak from the corners of Tracer’s eyes as Widowmaker rocked against her face, escape or relief impossible due to the wall at her back keeping her head firmly trapped, yet she never tried to move from her position or get her to stop. Yet her gloved hands rose to wrap around the back of Widowmaker’s thighs, gentle pressure encouraging her to go as fast as she pleased.

The groan broke from between Widowmaker’s lips unbidden. She was enveloped completely, the wet muscle massaging the whole length of her cock in a rhythmic caress every time Tracer swallowed – saliva and the pre-cum Widowmaker knew had to be leaking from her tip by now – and she quickened the movements of her hips with a low growl of arousal.

Quick thrusts turned into forceful ones, and soon Widowmaker found herself slamming into the girl’s gullet with nary a concern for possible pain inflicted.

And Tracer accepted it all. Her shoulders were lowered, the tense set of her brows gone and her throat smooth and open.

A telltale throb of pleasure sparked at the base of Widowmaker’s spine as she peered down at the flushed girl, at the drop of sweat dripping down her chin to pool above her thrumming pulse.

A hand had found it’s way inside her pants, slipping and sliding against herself frantically while Widowmaker used her mouth as little more than a sex toy.

Tracer moaned around her, then, and the vibration caused Widowmaker to curse softly. Her spine stiffened, thrusts faltering, and she knew it would be so easy to slide as deep into the girl as she could, to keep her still and unmoving between concrete and skin as she came down her throat.

She would accept it gladly, Widowmaker suspected. Something about that thought made her uncomfortable, made a curious thumping start up in her chest that she had no use for, and when the tight knot of heat in her stomach burst, she forced herself to pull out.

A low groan was all she allowed herself as a last flick of Tracer’s tongue pushed her over the edge and the rising wave spilled over, thick ropes of cum shooting from her tip with every pump of her hand.

She had meant to aim for the ground, the wall, anything, but it happened too quick and the pleasure was too distracting to stop herself from covering Tracer’s face – chin, lips, cheek, nose - with the evidence of her lust.

When the sensations faded, Tracer had stood.

She blinked at her, probably grateful that her goggles had protected her eyes from the brunt of Widowmaker’s orgasm, and parted her lips to lick up what she could reach.

“You made a right mess of things,” she said, a twinkle in her eyes. Her voice was rough and husky, evidence that her throat would be sore for days to come, and Widowmaker gritted her teeth against the new spark dancing along her spine.

Tracer grinned widely, even as she was forced to take off her goggles and clean her lower face with the furry inside of her collar.

“Shouldn’t have bothered to pull out on my account.”

The sentiment was expected, but the words somehow still threatened to knock Widowmaker back a few paces. Because it was evident in the dimples created by the girl’s broad smile and the brightness in her eyes – she was happy.

Widowmaker had done everything in her power to create hate where it was meant to be, had used her as though she was as irrelevant and inhuman as the rest of Widowmaker’s marks, and yet Tracer had taken it all and turned it into a sign of something that brought a smile to her face and caused the emptiness in Widowmaker’s chest to stutter.

Purple lips found the soft skin of Tracer’s abused throat.

There was no resistance to be found when Widowmaker pressed them flat against the cool concrete and slipped a hand inside Tracer’s pants.

“You don’t have to-,” Tracer began to gasp, but was cut off by a rough swipe of skilled fingers over her clit. Her thighs were soaked in sweat and a different sort of wetness and the heat of a furnace met Widowmaker’s palm as she delved deep into the inviting flesh between the girl’s legs.

“I told you I prefer you silent.”

Two of her fingers slid in easily and Widowmaker ignored the thought hovering at the back of her mind that Tracer could take another part of her just as easily in this state, that all it would take was a tearing of fabric and a shift of her hips until she could bury herself inside her.

She didn’t go slow. Didn’t need to. It was obvious from the quivering of the girl’s internal muscles and the gasped moans brushing over Widowmaker’s head that she was painfully aroused.

Tracer’s arms wrapped around her neck as she took on a merciless rhythm, curling her fingers hard on every pass and circling her clit with her thumb as the woman in her arms trembled and strained in an effort to meet her palm.

“Close,” Tracer whimpered. “Gonna…”

A drop of sweat rand down her neck and Widowmaker caught it with her tongue before opening her mouth to pinch the vulnerable skin between her teeth. She added another finger and thrust harder, flicking her clit faster, and just as she felt the last, the final, tightening of her muscles, she bit down.

Tracer came with a hoarse shout, voice breaking before it could carry down and attract an audience. Her hips jerked irregularly and Widowmaker met her movements thrust for thrust, keeping her teeth clenched around the little patch of hurt she wanted, _had_ to leave her with.

When the earth righted itself and the tremors subsided, Widowmaker pulled her fingers from their warm resting-place and allowed Tracer to lean heavily against the wall to get her breathing under control.

She looked down at her palm. Glistening and wet and invisibly thrumming. Thrumming because she knew if she were to check, she’d feel the faint quiver of a pulse she wasn’t supposed to have.

Her thoughts kept her from noticing Tracer’s approach until still-wet lips brushed the corner of her mouth and twinkling eyes found hers. And if there was a hint of worry in them, neither of them was ready to address it.

“Thanks for that, love,” she said, chipper as usual. “I needed that.”

Widowmaker wanted to tell her to leave her be, to finally get it into her thick skull that whatever she wanted from her, she couldn’t give.

Instead her eyes lingered on the already darkening bite mark on her skin. She said nothing and perhaps Tracer had a better understanding of it all than she did, because the girl nodded and squeezed her arm and then, with a last lop-sided smile, she was gone.

Widowmaker dressed stiffly, touching all the invisible marks Tracer had left before she even contemplated re-joining the battle.

She remembered the night Tracer had neglected to kill her, all the opportunities she had passed up in favour of dealing with her in a different way, and found her rifle lying a few feet away.

Loaded. Unused.

Widowmaker touched the trigger that had killed so many, that had killed so indiscriminately until now, and smiled bitterly.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to know more about my writing, hop on over to my [tumblr](http://the-queen-and-her-soldier.tumblr.com/)!


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